DADT
by RenaUke
Summary: I always think it was the Gulf War, but have to remind myself that he was still in school then. / Xigbar is a veteran with more than a few painful memories. Written in the thick of the DADT repeal snafoos. XigDem


Written in the midst of all that nonsense in Congress, when things were looking bad for the repeal. But civil rights have triumphed! At least for now...

Details about army rules, when which wars happened, and the anatomical possibility of some injuries may be wrong. So sue me.

Have the XigDem, in TeacherxStudent form. I really love veteran!Xigbar.

* * *

He lost his eye in some war. I don't remember which one because all I can remember about that class is the look of death on his face, something I'll never understand I guess, and no one else in the class could see it.

Actually, you know, I do remember. Afghanistan. That's where it was. I always think it was the Gulf War, but have to remind myself that he was still in school then. Like, middle school. Hard to believe he's so young. I guess that's what war does to you.

He only gets weird when he talks about recent war, thank god. I like him much better when he's teasing, and his one eye glitters like a cat playing with its food. That's what students are. They get chewed out and teased and mocked. But stupid remedial history at stupid community college is full of stupid people. Which I guess includes me. Just because I would rather be playing guitar and laying out in the sun and swimming in the river. School work is lame. At least now I get his help.

I remember the first time he let me come to his apartment. He had a trophy case in the front room. A freaking trophy case. Well, a china cabinet with trophies in it, but it's all the same. He told me about the trophies from high school: track, soccer, baseball, wrestling, even volleyball. He claims he had a mean serve.

Under the soccer trophy I saw a brown envelope, and his dog tags arranged in a neat coil. Then I look back through the case. He watched, interested.

"Where's your purple heart?" I asked.

"My what?"

"Your purple heart. For this." I touched his eye patch. He smiled a bitter smile.

"Not getting one of those."

"But you lost your eye!"

"But 'dishonorable discharge.'" His face had the look that army talk always gave him.

"What? Why? You're always honorable! Maybe sarcastic sometimes, but honorable . . ." I thought my compliment would at least make him smirk a little, but his face grew even darker.

"DADT," he growled.

"What?"

"Don't Ask Don't Fucking Tell." He sat angrily in a chair and wrenched his boots off violently.

"Oh. I didn't know . . ." I trailed off, not knowing what to say. When he looked up I guess he saw the silent question in my eyes, because he let out a long sigh as he stood and put his boots on the doormat. His fury died to a simmer.

"The story. You want the story." I went to protest, but he just looked at me, and my words dies in my throat.

"Before the army I was a regular gay college kid. Had a boyfriend, hot guy, a British kid. Really liked him, think he liked me too. When I decided to go out for the army, he told me not to go, demanded really, but I went anyway. I was young, and stupid." He walked through the front room and into the linoleum kitchen, and I followed like a puppy, my sneakers squeaking on the smooth floor. He started to make a sandwich. Wash hands, lettuce, bread, tomato.

"After I took the blast for my buddy, that dumb boy kept harassing the army people, trying to get more info on my situation. They kept turning him away, until he finally bursts out with, 'but he's my boyfriend! I have a right to know!' Stupid fucker.

"The army station where I was didn't hear about it until I was healed, at least up and about. I was playing cards with my buddies when the sergeant came in to get me, and my best bud, the one I lost my eye for, jumped up and threw his cards. 'Disgusting faggot,' he says, 'fucking rot in hell,' and I said, 'the fuck man, I saved you life,' and one of the other guys says, 'what a fag, you must be in love with him,' and lucky for me the sergeant pulled me out of there right then, because I wanted to slit his throat." He stopped, his voice reduced to a furious hiss, and the sandwich he had been working on lay in parts on the cutting board. His hands were clenched around the edge of the counter. I stepped up behind him and tentatively put my hands on his tight shoulders. He shrugged me off violently and stood there tense for a moment, before slumping defeatedly against the counter.

"No, fuck, no, I'm sorry Demyx, go ahead," he sighed incoherently, abandoning the sandwich and dropping into a chair. "Only rub my neck, not my back. The scars feel fresh when I talk about it." I complied, and I thought I could feel the tension dispersing below my fingers. He slouched down in the chair, but he wasn't quite done.

"The stupidest part is, when I got home, Mr. British fuckhead had moved on and started a thing with a construction worker. And he said he was sorry, sure, but when I took off my shirt that first time back, he couldn't keep the disgust off his face at the sight of those scars. So I threw him out, and he was glad to go. My fake army buddies turn on me, whatever, but I didn't expect that out of my own goddamned boyfriend. Fucking asshole gets me kicked out of the military and doesn't even want me anymore."

I stopped rubbing his neck and knelt down beside the chair. He looked at me, the eyelashes of his good eye heavy with damp.

"I've never seen the scars."

"No. You'll just be disgusted like all the other fuckers, and I'll be alone again."

"No I won't. I promise I won't." His resolve was not very strong. He shrugged a resigned shrug.

"Whatever. May as well scare you off now before I get too attached," he said, refusing to look at me. He unbuttoned his dress shirt, and took it off. There was a pale band of scar on his right bicep, where the short sleeve of his undershirt ended. Then he took the undershirt off, and the design was revealed in full. The lines splayed from his left shoulder, crossing all down his back nearly to his hips. A few small lines decked his chest as well. They were all the same color as the scar on his cheek.

"Good god," I breathed, my eyes tracing each scar, but also lingering on his defined muscles, and the place where his briefs peeked over the waistband of his pants. I felt myself blushing.

"Go on," he urged bitterly. I blinked, confused.

"Go on. Tell me how war has made me monstrous, how I look like a hideous creature from the netherworld, how no one will ever want to touch me again because my body is so disgusting."

"What?" I was taken aback by the venom in his voice. "Is that – is that what he said?"

"Who?"

"Mr. British fuckhead?" He smirked painfully, hearing those words from my mouth.

"Luxord. And yes. Yes he did. That's exactly what he said." His shoulders caved, and he rested his elbows on his knees, his back hunched under some invisible burden.

"Well he's a liar."

"Hn?"

"He's a damn liar. Your scars aren't disgusting. They're beautiful." He shook his head.

"You don't believe that. You can't hide that look of disgust . . ." he trailed off, as he turned and looked closely at me, his one eye piercing. His pained expression grew bewildered as he searched my face for something that wasn't there.

"You do believe that?" He asked softly, eyes searching.

"Yes." Tentatively I put one hand on the scarred shoulder. He flinched, but didn't pull away. I carefully ran one finger over the lines etched over his shoulder blade. When he remained still, I let my hands roam across all his back, every fold in his skin, every subtle change in color. His skin shivered. At last he looked at me, his one eye burning brightly.

"It has been so long since anyone touched me," he said, his voice hoarse and crackling. I pulled away, alarmed by the new flame in his eye.

"I – but . . ." I couldn't express what I was thinking, but he could guess. His expression softened.

"Yeah. That's ok, for now. But please touch my back. It heals what surgeons can't." He smiled to himself at that. And so we sat for what seemed hours. He moved down and sat on the linoleum, and I sat behind him, running my hands over his scars and his spine and his relaxed muscle. He stayed still, one hand playing with my shoelace, the other fiddling with his braid.


End file.
